


now that this old world is ending

by prophesyr



Category: Far Cry 5
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-18
Updated: 2019-03-18
Packaged: 2019-11-23 08:02:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18149243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prophesyr/pseuds/prophesyr
Summary: '  may we raise our voices to the heavens in rejoice, and may they tremble before his majesty. praise be to the father, not for the life he has given, but for the pain he has taken.   '—sermon, the project at eden's gate.





	now that this old world is ending

**Author's Note:**

> Posted originally on prophesyr @ tumblr for the Hope County Gothic 2018 event.

          ‘   Something that isn’t _**Amazing Grace**_ ,   ‘     John had said with the surety of someone who knew by experience.     ‘   People don’t   **w a n t** hymns anymore.   ‘

          ‘   They want music—   ‘

          ‘   Of course they do, but something they can **DANCE** to. Make them feel your word as well as they can read it.   ’

          For days, he dwelled on this sentiment, turning it over in his mind and his hands. He was no Curtis Mayfield or James Taylor. Far from any composer, he was simply Joseph Seed. Perhaps he knew the inner workings of **societal deceit**. Of course, he could comprehend the lengths to which people would go to prove themselves whole. The Voice may have _**guided**_ him, but now the question echoed pitilessly in his mind. 

_What speaks to_ ** _them_** _?_

          Half a notebook worth of paper filled the wastebasket at the far side of the room. Three times now, he’d emptied it, and at least ten, attempted to empty his mind. Try as he did to tell himself that it was normal to hit that proverbial **BRICK WALL** , it felt more like living inside of one. With a clouded mind, the one sure fix he could piece together could either be banging his head against the outside of the building to the point it may split, or screaming until his voice gave out.

          John had _**expectations**_ , though giving him that kind of control was questionable. However, this was his idea, and not for the first time, he was right. The age of pipe organs had long since passed. No one knew the words to **Be Thou my Vision** , and those who did already spent their monthly governmental allowance in the offering plate at another, more closed-minded church somewhere else in Atlanta. 

          They sat together over a hot meal when Joseph found the   **h e a r t** to tell his brother,     ‘   I can’t write.   ‘

          ‘   You’re writing your own book, right?   ‘     He didn’t care much to wait for an answer.  Still, Joseph nodded.     ‘   _**Don’t worry about it.**_ I’ll make some calls and have someone else take care of it.   ’

          Good intentions often paved the road to **disaster**. The idea that someone else would be placed in charge of his purpose—of the Voice’s vision—made Joseph _**sick**_ , and the lingering scent of **GORE AND DEATH** within the slaughterhouse did nothing to help. He filled pages with thoughts and ideas, each as _**useless**_ as the last. He threw them, shredded them. 

          Most of them, he burned. 

          A pointless endeavor would lead to pointless ends, as they always did. Thus was the law of artistry. Just as the Pope could not paint the Sistine, Joseph could not write a single verse for his own _**gospel**_. Songs had rules, a flow that helped dictate how the listener consumed each of them. Had Joseph ever known talent outside speech, the Voice would have chosen someone else with little worth—as little as the pen, nearly bled **DRY** by his efforts, which he finally rests in submission on a folding chair to his left.  
  
          That makeshift church sat in a false silence, hardly masking the quiet shuffling of footfall behind him. Not even when she spoke did the sound fill his chapel.     ‘   — Excuse me,   ‘     she called out, weary and timid.     ‘   Are you… _**are you the Father?**_   ‘ 

          Rarely did strangers find this place, and more seldom did they approach him without one of his brothers at their side. Standing no taller than _**five-foot-two**_ , her smile could have made even   _ **t h i s**_ place feel like it could hold the gates to Eden itself. Too quickly, he stood, brows skewed in the confusion that came from **exhaust**. Despite the heavy weight of his eyes and the disheveled state of his hair, he returned her smile to the best of his abilities.

          ‘   Please, call me Joseph.   ‘

          They both gave an awkward laugh.     ‘   Alright. _**Joseph**_.   ‘     She nodded once, as if to sidestep any blasphemy in the use of his real name.     ‘   Sorry, I didn’t know anyone would be here or if you would—I came in Sunday to try and **wait out** the rain. Everywhere else was closed down, and **HONESTLY** , I haven’t stepped foot in a church since I was maybe twelve.   ‘

          Some part of him deflated for a moment, just enough that the shift in his eyes could be visible behind the glasses.     ‘   If we’ve done anything to _**offend**_ , I can assure you—   ‘

          ‘   No, no. Not at all. I caught the part where you were talking about teen mothers, and… I had my son when I was   **s i x t e e n**. His dad dipped out the second I told him I was pregnant, and my parents kicked me out. Seven years later, and they still don’t want to meet their own grandbaby.   ‘     Her hands clasp before her to **steady** their shaking. Any moment now, she could burst and send pieces of her broken soul through the walls of this place.     ‘   But what you said, you know the whole   _ **“nothing makes a mother but the love she has for her child”**_? I couldn’t get it out of my head. I was raised in church, and I always thought that it’d be part of the past but… I just had to come and tell you myself. Thank you for helping me live another day.   ‘

          Into the early hours of the next morning, they sat and spoke about life, _**her son**_. Every so often, they would find themselves rabbit-holing into old family recipes and childhood stories about John and Jacob. She **joined** the church that night, and from her came dozens of new faces in his pews, each with their own story of **DEFEAT** and hoping for a chance of revival.

          This is what he wrote down, not in verses or rhyme. Not with any form of melody in mind or the thought of instrumentals attached. Joseph wrote until his fingers   **a c h e d** and his eyes burned, and then he would sleep and continue upon waking. He wrote about the Project, what it **MEANT** and for whom it stood. Whether it be for the layman working nine-to-five for next to nothing or the lost soul who knows the **furthest extent** of physical trauma, no matter their age, who they wanted to marry, or the color of their skin—however the world **_harmed_** them, everyone who entered that door would always be welcomed. And that was a praise worth singing. 

          By the time he found a place to stop, John was airing out a few new songs of his own. How he beamed until Joseph handed him **THIRTY-TWO**  pages of lyrics.     ‘   This is your song?   ’

          ‘   Did you want something **longer**?   ’

          Frustration darkened John’s eyes, yet he held his tongue. Come the ultimate end, they both found it mutually _**beneficial**_ if he would just go with it. Page after page, line after line, the youngest Seed gradually softened until tears all but **FLOODED** the deep blue of his eyes.     ‘   This is…   ‘     Mouth agape, he stared at the final line as he grappled for his composure. Beautiful, a muted sob nearly betrayed before he could reel it back.     ‘   It’s too long to be a song, but I think we can   **s a l v a g e** it. I’d like to use this closing line: _Let the water wash away your sins._    ‘

          As he hovered there, that smile returned with the same **innocence** John once knew as a child.


End file.
